


Run Me Through

by dollylux



Series: The Start of Something [8]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Coming Untouched, Jealousy, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Rough Sex, mostly just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 11:36:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11896923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: Thranduil has new skylights installed in his studio.





	Run Me Through

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnotherPooka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherPooka/gifts).



Bard comes home one afternoon for lunch, and he nearly runs into the house with his truck.

There’s another pickup truck in the yard, a new full-sized Tundra, gleaming black and looking like it had been washed this morning. Bard is so busy staring at it that he doesn’t realize how close he’s inching to the set of double stairs leading up to the front door, and he has to slam on his breaks to keep from crashing into them.

“Motherfuck,” he mumbles, his cheeks flushed with mortification. At least no one saw it.

“Bard, what the hell!?” comes Thranduil’s voice from the balcony of the porch above as soon as he opens his door.

Bard closes his eyes and slinks out of the truck.

“Hey, hon,” he calls back, closing the door and heading for one of the sets of stairs. “Sorry. There was a bee in the truck.”

“Honestly,” Thranduil says with fond exasperation, his hands on Bard’s chest as soon as he finishes the journey up the steps and comes face to face with him. Bard manages to push aside his embarrassment and meet Thranduil’s eyes, immediately lost in the impossible blue of them. “You’d give Bron even more work to do.”

Bard stops halfway from leaning in to his greeting kiss from Thranduil. Frowns.

“Who’s--”

“Alright, Mr. Bowman,” a hulking, long-haired man says as he strides out of the house and joins them on the deck. His hair is just as long as Bard’s and just as dark, his eyes a deep brown that pierces everything they lock on, including Bard’s husband. “Everything looks great. We’ll be back in the morning to get started.”

Bard looks between them, not realizing that his hand is now curled in a firm grip on Thranduil’s hip, and he won’t know how hard he was holding on until he discovers the bruise later that night.

“Get… started,” he says slowly, finally turning all his attention back to Thranduil and not to Don or whoever. “Get started on what? What’s going on?”

He spares a glance back up at the man who’s a bit taller than Bard himself, trying not to frown at how devastatingly handsome his stupid face is.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Bron Strongman,” the man says, sticking a meaty hand out from a thick arm to shake Bard’s. It takes a warning squeeze to his belly from Thranduil to make him put his hand there, making his grip as impressive as possible when they shake, when he gives the man his own name. He wants to roll his eyes.

Strongman. Really?

“I’m having skylights put in my studio,” Thranduil says, so excited that it actually shows in his voice. He gives Bard a gentle shake. “I’m so influenced by nature anyway, you know? It’ll be nice to have all that extra light. And to see the stars and the rain and the snow. Don’t you think it’ll be lovely?”

Bard gave up all his qualms about using words like lovely and charming and darling a long time ago. He learned quickly that Thranduil has the ultimate power of punishment for not playing along in moments like this, and Bard is an unapologetic addict to every inch of Thranduil’s generous body.

“Lovely,” he repeats automatically, even as he’s still processing. Bron gives him a broad smile and claps him on the arm hard enough to hurt before he starts to bound down the stairs to his truck, the muscled weight of him so very much that the whole raised porch vibrates with his movements.

“See you tomorrow, Thranduil!” Bron calls with a wave before climbing into his truck, so tall that he doesn’t even have to use the step.

Bard hates him.

“Come on!” Thranduil says airily, reaching for Bard’s still-stinging-from-Bron’s-handshake hand and tugging him into the house. “If we eat fast, you’ll have time to do me real quick on the table.”

Thranduil loves being fucked on surfaces that most people would assume were too hard or dirty or public for his taste. But Bard knows intimately just how surprising Thranduil can be.

He forces himself to forget Bron for the time being so he can focus on the warm paninis waiting for them and his soft-skinned dessert that’ll inevitably follow.

 

\--

He leaves work twenty minutes early for lunch the next day, and he might speed a little bit on his way home.

There are more trucks in the driveway today, a lot of wood and panes of glass and beefy guys walking around in jeans and toolbelts and oh god, where is his husband.

He bounds up the stairs and into the house, bypassing a few of the milling workers and heading straight for Thranduil’s studio.

They’d spent hours yesterday folding up fabrics and tucking them into boxes that Thranduil had painstakingly labeled before Bard carried them down to one of the guest rooms and stacked them up together. His studio is now mostly cleared out, ready for all the work that’s about to be done in it. 

Bard stops just before he gets to the door when he hears two laughs that make every muscle in his body tense.

Thranduil. And fucking Bron.

A couple more steps and he’s in the doorway, frowning into the vast studio that’s now so empty, every sound echoes. He folds his arms over his chest and hopes his arms look impressive enough in his worn leather jacket. He’d even forgone shaving this morning so he looks extra scruffy.

“Hey,” he says, his voice gruff.

Thranduil looks over too slowly for Bard’s liking, his face lit up like morning, his hand long and lovely where it rests on Bron’s arm. His bicep that’s probably as thick as Thranduil’s waist.

“Oh, hey, darling! I didn’t hear you come home.” 

Thranduil stays where he is, but he lets his hand fall away from Bron’s stupid body, his hair longer than ever and down in cornsilk, soft falls all around his shoulders and down his back. He’s wearing one of Bard’s old Steppenwolf shirts, the fabric rolled and gathered up to one side and tied in a knot above his waist, showing off a flash of milky-pale stomach and his navel. His yoga pants are black and clingy as ever, his ass looking like a masterpiece that belongs in a permanent collection of a museum instead of prancing around in front of a dozen carpenters and roofers and Bron, but Bard is a father of four. He’s very good at maintaining his composure when he wants to scream or murder.

“You look busy,” Bard replies, keys jingling against his palm. He aches with imagined rejection, with the foreign feeling of being ignored by Thranduil in favor of something or someone else who isn’t one of all of their children. “I can go grab something at the diner. I’ll see you--”

“No!” Thranduil cuts in, rushing across the smooth wooden floor and snagging Bard by one of his belt loops. “I made plenty of food. I’m gonna feed all of these guys, too. There’s lots to eat.”

Bard glances back up at Bron across the room who seems busy writing on a clipboard, but Bard catches him, catches him, staring hard at Thranduil’s ass in his tight, stretchy pants.

The world turns red.

“How long is this going to take?” Bard asks, sounding just as suspicious as he feels and directing the question at Bron. “It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days. I have a buddy who could get this knocked out today.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Thranduil laughs, slapping Bard on the chest and gripping the lapel of his jacket to tug him away from the door. Bard narrows his eyes at Bron as he’s pulled away, and they don’t look away from each other until Bard simply can’t see him anymore.

“I wish you’d told me you were planning this.” Bard holds his bowl out for the spinach leaves Thranduil drops in it, acting very spoiled husband as Thranduil dresses his salad and shakes up the oil and vinegar before handing it over to Bard to pour it on. “I’ve done some design and carpentry work. I bet I could’ve--”

“No, Bard,” Thranduil says with a sigh, but he’s smiling, “you couldn’t have. And that’s okay. You do plenty. More than enough. You’ve got so many talents, and I’m lucky enough to be on the receiving end of almost every one of them.”

Bard feels his face heat up as a few of the guys lurking around them glance over and watch as Thranduil leans in for a slow, accidentally deep kiss.

“So, you just relax. I’m taking care of this. I’ve got Bron, and he’s plenty capable of getting this job done, and done right.” 

Thranduil is teasing him, of course, but it stings. Bard frowns down at his salad, stabbing particularly hard at a slice of cucumber and pouting as lowkey as he can all through lunch.

He even stays quieter than normal when Thranduil sucks him off in the pantry.

 

\--

It’s so busy on Friday that Bard doesn’t get to come home for lunch. Thranduil sends him back 12 one-tear emojis in response, and it comforts Bard just enough not to blow off the rush job that he needs to get done and rush home to make sure Bron is a respectable distance from his husband at all times.

What he doesn’t expect is to pull into the drive and see only Bron’s truck there in the evening, all the other men and trucks and equipment gone. He can see the new skylights that had taken four days to complete, can see the warm light coming from Thranduil’s studio, making the whole place look even more inviting.

Bard can’t help but smile as he steps out into the warm evening, a take-out falafel feast in the heavy bag swaying in his grip. 

The kids are all still at summer camp, the whole house gloriously quiet and just theirs for now. Maybe Bron’s just here so they can finish up last minute details. Maybe Thranduil is paying him.

Maybe Bard hurries into the house and his heart is racing a little too fast. 

It’s quiet when he closes the door behind him, and he has to stop and listen carefully to figure out where the only two people in the house are.

There’s a rustle in the kitchen, so Bard follows it, relieved when he only sees Thranduil cutting up a melon and licking his fingers clean of juice.

“Hey, beautiful,” he sighs, tired from a long day and aching to just sink into comfortable clothes and into Thranduil’s always-ready body. Thranduil spins around and beams at him, his mouth slick with honeydew juice as he rushes over and throws his arms around Bard’s neck, kissing him so hard that Bard has to lean back against the island.

“Missed you,” Thranduil mumbles between kisses, grabbing the food from Bard’s hand and dropping it onto the island, his hands immediately returning to Bard’s body to start peeling him from his clothes.

“Is…” Bard tries, letting Thranduil strip him of his smelly, oily denim jacket, his t-shirt. “Is everything done?”

“Mm,” Thranduil confirms, running his hands over and over Bard’s chest through the sweaty, curled tufts of hair there. Bard shifts so his hips are out, so Thranduil can feel the way he’s already half-hard in his jeans.

He thinks of Bron’s truck outside, and he leans back from Thranduil’s greedy mouth to meet his eyes.

“Why is Bron still--”

“He’s putting my studio back together.” Thranduil’s voice is tight, strange, and Bard just leans back and studies his face as Thranduil works on his belt, on the button of Bard’s jeans.

“Is everything--”

“He came onto me,” Thranduil finally says, his voice falling to nearly a whisper. “Cornered me earlier this afternoon in our bedroom. I had to… well. Let’s just say that money is a strong incentive not to do anything incredibly idiotic.”

“He what?” Bard grits out, standing up straight again suddenly, his head tipping back to glare up at the ceiling in Bron’s general direction. “I’ll kill him. I’m gonna fucking rip his--”

“Fuck me,” Thranduil whispers, so worked up that he’s breathless with it, and Bard’s head jerks back down when he feels the cool silk of Thranduil’s hand around his cock in his underwear, when Thranduil starts to work him so easily into full hardness so he’s ready to use. “Just fuck me right here. Make me scream.”

Bard’s hands are on Thranduil’s ass instinctively, gripping the thick handfuls of it and kneading them as Thranduil pulls his dick out and kisses Bard again, biting down so hard on Bard’s bottom lip that he snaps out of his dazed fury and refocuses on the task at hand.

Make Thranduil scream. He can absolutely do that.

He hears the tiny splat of precome from his dick hitting the tile between their feet, and he growls softly into Thranduil’s mouth as he yanks Thranduil’s pants down, bringing a rough slap down on one cheek that makes him gasp, makes him press his forehead hard against Bard’s and whimper right against his mouth.

“Remind me who I belong to,” Thranduil breathes, so soft now that Bard is rubbing at his bare skin, now that he’s worked his thick fingers between Thranduil’s ass and is rubbing at his already loosened, lubed-up hole. Thranduil had been waiting for him. Waiting for this. “Let him know who I belong--”

“Me,” Bard gruffs out, dropping a series of stinging slaps on Thranduil’s ass before he grabs it again and spins them around, turning Thranduil so that he’s pressed against the island and bent in half over it, his heather grey yoga pants around his thighs, no underwear, fat, pale ass tipped up and ready to be had, just the tiniest amount of slick glistening between his cheeks.

Bard shoves Thranduil until he’s sprawled across the island, and he kicks his legs apart further so he can brace himself for it when Bard steps up tight against him and grips his cock, shoving it impatiently around to slip between Thranduil’s ass and then roughly up inside of him, burying himself in until he feels his balls smashed between Thranduil’s taint and the bite of the zipper on his jeans.

He’s got a big dick, and he’s normally pretty humble about it. He grabs Thranduil’s hips to steady himself and leans back, digging his hips in hard to push in that much deeper, so deep that Thranduil cries out in real surprise, in the tiniest hint of real pain.

Bard breathes hard and stays buried in his clutching, warm body, pushing a hand up Thranduil’s spine under his soft flowy shirt to give him a little bit of sweetness. Thranduil arches up into it, nearly purring for it. Bard pulls his hand out and wraps the fairytale-long fall of Thranduil’s hair around his arm, grabbing the root of it all in his hand and yanking his head back hard.

A strangled yelp and a tight clench around Bard’s cock. Thranduil is absolutely loving this.

“Hold on,” Bard warns, not waiting to make sure Thranduil’s hands grab the edge of the island.

He starts in so hard that he can feel the friction burn on his cock in spite of the lube in Thranduil’s ass, and he trusts Thranduil to keep them from falling as he just grabs onto his hips and leans back, pounding deep and fast enough for the slick slaps to echo off the tile and the steel and the marble of their kitchen.

Thranduil’s loud as a pornstar even on his off days, and the circumstances of tonight combined with the ruthless, possessive fuck of Bard’s cock has him sobbing so hard he’s hoarse after just a couple of minutes. Bard watches him, watches how red his cheeks get and the tears that slip out from under thick dark lashes because it’s just that good, watches the tight shudder of Thranduil’s bubble butt as Bard bangs him out.

“Bard,” Thranduil whines, like he’s begging, and it makes Bard snap his hips forward and grind inside of him in the exact way that makes Thranduil fall apart in no time, makes him come untouched and makes him cry real tears for a good half hour after they’re done. 

Bard knows his baby.

He folds himself down over Thranduil’s back, draping himself there and keeping up the nasty grind of his hips, working himself around inside of Thranduil until he’s loose enough that Bard can hear the wet squelch of it. He lets go of his hair and covers Thranduil’s hands gripping the edge of the counter, his beard irritating delicate skin as he kisses the back of Thranduil’s neck, sucking just behind his ear and breathing hot and hard there.

Thranduil is trembling fine all over, only seconds away from coming.

“This what you want?” Bard whispers, his fingers tangled with Thranduil’s, his cock thickening obscenely as it starts to flex inside of him. God, he’s so ready. “This what you want him to hear?”

“Yes,” Thranduil sobs, resting his cheek on the cool tile so that Bard can kiss the side of his neck and his burning, tear-stained face and his pliant mouth, which he does with a hunger he reserves only for this man.

Bard ruts into him, mean and savage as an animal. He pushes up onto his tiptoes to keep himself buried in completely. He realizes that they aren’t alone, that there are eyes on them now from the doorway. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t care that Bron is watching. He tucks his face into the wilderness of Thranduil’s white hair and closes his eyes.

“You’re fucking mine,” Bard tells him, too soft to be overheard, and when he rears his hips back to start ramming in hard for the final lap, Thranduil falls apart beneath him. He can feel the way his thighs are shaking like they only do when he comes untouched, can feel the bones of his hands creaking when Thranduil grips them deathly tight, can feel the way he strains and presses back against Bard, trying futilely to get him in deeper and faster and more, because they’re obsessed with each other, because it’s never enough; never close enough, never lasts long enough.

“I love you,” Thranduil promises in between hitching sobs, and the unbelievably tight pulse of his ass as he comes milks Bard’s cock without effort, pulling the orgasm from Bard until he’s just slamming over and over into Thranduil’s ass, burying it as far inside of him as he can, staying strained forward and locked in as deep as possible so he can’t feel anything but Thranduil’s heartbeat all around him while they both fight to come back down.

The front door closes then, followed soon by the sound of a truck engine. Bard snorts tiredly, gathering up the last of his strength to lift himself up enough to kiss the side of Thranduil’s mouth.

“He’s getting a terrible review on Yelp,” he mumbles as he slips out of Thranduil, a rushing drip of come following and splattering on the floor. Thranduil huffs out a laugh and stays where he is, boneless and ready to be carried upstairs.

Bard makes sure to grab two bottles of water from the fridge before he carries his husband and their dinner up the stairs to their bedroom.


End file.
